Lydia
by Arsenical
Summary: After the Stormcloak victory at Whiterun, the Dragonborn goes to Breezehome to ascertain the loyalties of his housecarl: Lydia.
1. Chapter 1

The embers were still smoldering by the time I exited Dragonsreach and returned to the scorched ruins of Whiterun, intent to see Lydia in my home – our home, that is.

Even with blood dripping from a stab wound to the foreleg, an arrow to the shoulder and three blades (including my own) pinning him down, the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, still refused our demands for a surrender. Galmar swung his dulled and bloody battleaxe, only to be blocked by Irileth, the Jarl's housecarl. Galmar, in his rage, was about to take a swing at Irileth when Balgruuf, unbelievably, stood up, limping in between Galmar and Irileth, announcing his surrender. A true Nord, as far as I could tell: loyal to his own people and honourable to the end, with battle rather than blood flowing through his veins.

"Peace! Peace, damn it, peace!"

Galmar raised a knife (just as dulled and bloody) at Balgruuf's neck. "Say it," he demanded.

"I surrender," and with a blow to the head from Galmar's fist, Balgruuf fell on his knees, with Irileth barely being able to catch him on time.

"Dragonborn," Galmar said, turning to me, "head on back to Ulfric at Windhelm. Bards will sing of this glorious victory!"

"Dragonborn?" Balgruuf said, but I barely heard him. I heard him say something else, but I didn't even make an effort to hear it. I immediately turned away from Galmar and his bloody, Nordic rage; I turned away from the Stormcloaks looting what's left of the food and the silverware in the halls; I turned away from Balgruuf, who, as far as I could tell, was still attempting to stand on tired and bloodied legs.

The fighting had disappeared in Whiterun. The Companions, Gods bless them, had boarded up Jorrvaskr and decided to not join in on the fighting. If anyone could be said to be true sons and daughters of Whiterun, it would be the Companions, singing songs of victories in Jorrvaskr. The Gildergreen – either by pure luck or by the will of the Gods – remained untouched, its leaves still bright purple. The monument to Talos still stood, like an unconquerable guardian to the gates of Dragonsreach.

The remaining Whiterun guards, as well as the remaining Imperials, were being escorted into the dungeons of Dragonsreach. Exhausted, wounded faces looked up at me as I passed them by, some whispering as they recognized the Redguard who had joined in the fighting. "Dragonborn," they whispered. It's all right, as this isn't new to me. I much prefer this tame reaction to the complaints of many Stormcloaks about how a Redguard - born and raised in the desert and never even having been told stories and legends of dragons – could become the Dragonborn. It didn't matter. What mattered was Breezehome.

After helping Balgruuf – I suppose it's just Balgruuf now, since old Vignar Grey-Mane has replaced him as Jarl of Whiterun – deal with his local dragon problem, Balgruuf turned me into a Thane, gave me an axe, to be used as a symbol of my authority rather than as a tool for battle, a housecarl to serve as my personal guard, and a home for a foreigner to call his own in Skyrim: Breezehome, the first place that I could safely call my home since I left the desert.

Whiterun was as much my home as was the desert, and so it was that only a week previously, and with a heavy heart, I handed to Balgruuf the axe of Ulfric Stormcloak, only to have it returned to me, as a symbol of Balgruuf's intent to keep Whiterun loyal to the Empire.

As I passed Belethor's shop – I could hear Belethor inside protesting as the Stormcloaks were trying to break in – some of the Stormcloaks would greet me in a congratulatory manner ("Hail, Dragonborn!" "They will sing about us, Dragonborn!" "If only you were a Nord, you would surely enter Sovngarde!").

"Dragonborn!" The voice came from behind me. I turned to see Ralof, sporting an open cut across his chest. "I bet I killed more than you, I was counting."

"Were you now, brother?" I said, grasping his arm in welcome, "I reckon you would have the eyes of a dragon then, if you were able to see that far ahead in the battle to be able to count that many." He laughed and I smiled - something I had not done in a long time. In a time such as this, it's good to have a friend such as Ralof. "Are you all right?"

"Just a scratch, Dragonborn. Some Imperial got lucky."

"You must be getting slow. Perhaps it's time to go back to Riverwood and retire?" I said, jokingly, of course.

"Not until I see your grandchildren turn into the dust they were raised in, Dragonborn," he said, heading off in some other direction.

Without knowing it, we had walked up to Breezehome. The windows were boarded up shut, but the door, it seems, has only been locked. Using my key, I opened the door, to be greeted by a woman shouting at the top of her lungs, running at me with a sword. With a swift motion, I took out my scimitar, still bearing some of the stains of battle, and parried. "Lydia!"

Lydia, the housecarl assigned to me when I became Thane of Whiterun, had become a loyal housecarl, a great adventurer and an even greater friend. However, her loyalty has always been to Whiterun. Thus, before I headed on to Windhelm to tell the pompous, arrogant Nord that people call a Jarl that he has captured Whiterun, I had to fix matters at home. Not that the Stormcloaks would mind. _His people_ are dying by the hundreds and yet there he sits in the so-called Palace of Kings while the sweat on his brow is yet to turn into ice.

"Thane!" Lydia exclaimed, dropping her sword and falling to her knees. "Forgive me, Thane! The windows have been boarded and I have no knowledge of the outcome of the siege and I had to protect our – I mean your – home and had I known it was you at the door-"

"Lydia, there is nothing to forgive," I reassured her, closing the door behind me and helping her up.

"Of course. Honor to you, my Thane! Congratulations on your victory."

I ignored her remark. No Redguard could ever hope to have a victory on the side of the Stormcloaks.

"How was it?" she asked. She knew me all too well for me to lie or skirt around her question.

"Brutal," I answered, taking a seat beside the embers of the dying fire in our home. "Brother killing sister; sister killing brother – all for _liberation_. Liberation from what?"

"From the Empire and the Thalmor – you said so yourself," she answered, taking a seat beside me.

"From the Empire and the damned elves. Yes, of course." I could feel myself slouching, leaning back on my seat; my scimitar fell with a clang on the floor and my feet could feel the dying warmth of the embers (I remembered my bare feet walking through the sands of the Alik'r desert). To this day, I know not whether this was from the heavy guilt or from the fatigue.

"You know you don't have to fight for those damned Stormcloaks," Lydia said, moving her seat closer to mine; her warm hands grasping the blood on my arm. When she saw that I was covered in blood and dirt and soot from the battle, she got up and went to the pail of water in a kitchen and then, with a clean rag soaked in the water, started cleaning my arms. I resisted.

"Leave it," I told her, "it reminds me of the desert."

She put the rag back in the pail and looked me straight in the eyes. "Do you believe in Ulfric's rebellion?"

After a long silence: "I don't know," I finally answered.

"Do I believe in the independence of Skyrim?" I continued, "of course. My family bled and died for the freedom of the desert. Unfortunately, I was only old enough to hold a knife when the sands rose up in righteous fury."

"Then why doubt Skyrim's liberation?" she asked, returning to her seat.

I didn't answer. A philosophical argument regarding my participation in the so-called "liberation" of Skyrim wasn't the reason I returned to Lydia. "How are you?" I asked her.

Surprised, she looked away and straight into the dying embers. Smoke was still rising from the remnants. "That's why you're here, isn't it?" she finally asked. "You want to see where my loyalties lie?"

"Yes," I answered her. I picked up my scimitar and rearranged the fire, attempting to find a little more warmth.

"I am loyal to Whiterun and my Thane."

"Precisely my problem," I told her, once again dropping my scimitar on the floor. Back then, it sounded like the sound of my scimitar clanging on the floor reverberated all across the Hold. The silence in Breezehome seemed to be more unbearable than the screams of the dying and wounded I had heard just moments ago.

And then, at that moment, I remembered Ulfric: how he gave Baalgruf an axe and if Baalgruf gave back the axe, then that meant that Ulfric has declared war on Whiterun. I went to my weapon rack near the doorway where the axe that Baalgruf gave me was placed, on display.

Not fully understanding the Nordic customs, I gave the axe to Lydia. "What is your reply?"

Lydia stood up from her seat, the embers of the fire behind her were slowly dying. "I will be loyal to my Thane – to the Dragonborn - until the day I die. However," and with that word, I felt my heart sink into my chest, "before I met my Thane – before I met the Dragonborn – I was a woman of this Hold, a shield-sister of Dragonsreach, a housecarl of Whiterun." With eyes that burned and didn't for a moment leave mine, she handed the axe back to me.

"Keep it," I said. It was enough that she wanted to hand the axe back to me. To Oblivion with Nordic tradition – I'm not a Nord, and I wanted her to keep the axe. If anything, it was a parting gift, along with – "Breezehome is yours, Lydia."

"My Thane?"

"After this… this _liberation_ , I won't return. Breezehome, Whiterun, Dragonsreach – I'll be leaving all of this behind. The sands are calling to me. Therefore it seems only fitting that Breezehome be yours. You have spent more time in this home than I have."

"There is nothing in the desert," she said, placing the axe back on the weapon rack.

"Yes, and I can live with that nothing." I remember her laughing after this comment. Perhaps she didn't quite understand it, perhaps she thought it was the most absurd thing to ever come out of my mouth. Either way, her laugh is the most human thing I've ever heard in a long time.

"Farewell then?" I asked. The embers crackled in some newfound power. A tiny fire was glowing behind Lydia. This home felt more like the sands than it ever did in my stay in Breezehome.

"Farewell then, my Thane – I mean, farewell, Dragonborn. I hope the sands treat you better than the Stormcloaks."

Closing the door behind me, the smoke from the fire could be seen rising from the windows. I would meet the sands – but not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

I told myself I wouldn't return - and yet, there I was. Whiterun stood as tall as ever; Dragonsreach still bore signs of the siege and the part of the wall we broke through was still being mended. The wind in the plain was cold and my feet ached. I needed the rest. I walked into Whiterun's gates and, at this time of night, I was surprised I didn't get yelled at by the guards - but they knew me.

"The Dragonborn! Call the Jarl-"

"No," I told him. I felt my stomach grumble and my eyes were barely able to focus on the guard's orange helmet. I reached into my pocket to get a couple of gold pieces. "Don't tell anyone," I told him, handing him the gold and throwing a small purse at the other guard.

"Not a word, Dragonborn," he said after some confusion, opening the gates to Whiterun's quiet streets. When I entered, it was as though nothing much changed. While the walls and the castle may have still held on to the signs of the Stormcloak's siege on the city, the city itself seemed normal. The Drunken Hunstman was boarded up (no surprise there) and the Warmaiden's forge didn't burn through the night, but everything still felt like home. I had spent my last few months sleeping in cots inside crowded tents and on snowy, grassy or rocky floors. To be back in Whiterun – to come back to Breezehome – felt like the first thing to happen to me that I deserved.

I made my way up the street and, to my right (finally), was Breezehome. I could hear wolves howling from Jorrvaskr, the Companions singing their nightly songs. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that there was smoke rising from the chimney and that there was a shadow moving across the light that came from inside. It was her.

I stood in front of the door for a good minute, maybe even longer, before I knocked. I don't know why I hesitated. I could feel my heart racing as soon as I heard footsteps – _her_ footsteps – coming closer and closer to the door. And when it swung open, the look on her face made every wound I had gotten in this icy land worth it. "Dragonborn," she said.

My mouth had dried up, I couldn't even swallow. She just stood there, look on her face and everything.

"Have you forgotten my name already?" I asked.

She flashed a smile my way and retorted: "You haven't changed. Come in, Dragonborn."

And when I entered, I felt myself transported back a few months ago, to the first time she opened Breezehome for me, to the first time I slept on the cozy bed upstairs. It felt right to be here.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. There was no stew over the fire nor food on the table, she had just eaten. "I could get something from-"

"No, it's alright. I've eaten-"

"Yes, but you must have been walking all day-"

"It's alright-"

"I insist-"

"Lydia." She stopped. She was facing one of the shelves, her back turned to me. I can only imagine what she was feeling when she heard her name come out of my mouth for the first time in what felt like a whole age. I can only imagine what her face looked like. I can only imagine. "I've already eaten."

She turned to face me, expressionless. "Do you want to sit down?" and so I did. She sat down beside me. The last time we were here together…

The fire was roaring and Skyrim's nightly cold wind was finding its way into Breezehome through the cracks. It didn't feel like the desert – not anymore, anyway. I couldn't feel the grains of sand on my feet through the lit embers of the fire, I couldn't feel the desert's howling wind come in from under the door. All I could feel was the cold. I could remember how many days I was away from the sands.

Without knowing it, we had been sitting there for a few tense minutes, until-

"Why are you here?" she asked.

I had rehearsed my answer to this. Anything I had rehearsed, any pretense I pretended, flew out as soon as I saw her: "I couldn't leave without…"

"Oh. You're leaving."

"Yes."

"For good?"

"My job is done."

"What?"

"Alduin is dead-"

"-so I heard-"

"-You're free to worship-"

"-I was always free to worship-"

"-Your people have won-"

"-They are not my people-"

"-They're Stormcloaks-"

"-I'm not a Stormcloak-"

"-They're Nords-"

"-So too were the Imperials." She didn't avert her gaze from me, but I looked away and stared at the fire. I can't recall ever hearing her talk to me like this. We had always spoken in mutuality, with grace and peace always between us. It was never like this. I was no longer her Thane. I shouldn't be surprised. Hers is a flame that I had relegated to being a mere companion and steward of a house – of a _home._ This fire felt familiar. I could feel the desert in her. I tried to lighten the mood: "Where do you work now?"

"I still serve the Jarl at Dragonsreach," she answered. "Why are you here?" She was serious, and I knew I couldn't avoid her question.

"I came to say-"

"No. That's not it."

"What?"

"When you left-" she went over to the door and got the axe hanging from the top of the doorway "-you gave me this. This axe that Balgruuf gave you as your symbol of office. This, Dragonborn, was left here. When you left it here, you left your title of Thane and you left Breezehome. You have no connection left to this city, nothing left to leave behind. Again, I ask: Why. Are. You. Here?"

I was silent. I couldn't keep my eyes fixed upon her, try as I might. It took a minute, but I was able to answer. "That's not true."

"What isn't?"

"You said I had no connection left to Whiterun. That isn't true."

"You left the axe, you left Breezehome, you left Balgruuf rotting in a cell in the palace. What else could you have left behind here?"

 _I had to do it!_ I wanted to scream it at her, but I couldn't find the courage. The Redguard that united Skyrim and shouted down the World-Eater was muted by his former housecarl. All I could do was look, all my courage could muster was not look away as she held the axe that I had left her all those months ago. I looked into her eyes and all I could see was fire. I looked at her, attempting to communicate and being unable to say or do anything but look at her and think.

She must have understood, at the least, in part. _You, damn you,_ I was thinking. She put the axe down next to her chair and took her seat. "You lie."

"I'm not lying," I replied, finding my voice. "I couldn't leave the first time without-"

"You still left. Farewell or not, you left." She was still staring at me. Nothing I could say or do can make her avert her gaze.

"I had to-"

"I know!" she kicked the fire, hitting a tiny log that crumbled into tiny embers as it hit the wall. "I know you had to. But you still left. And now you're going to leave again?"

"Yes. I'm off to the sands. I wasn't… I left Solitude nights ago. Everywhere I went, I was greeted with thunderous applause. 'The Great Uniter, Savior of Skyrim, Keeper of Talos, Alik'r in Sovngarde.' Every title they could bestow, I was given. I took their wreaths and flowers and honors, I bowed my head and, in the middle of the night, I snuck out and left. I was heading east when… when I… I couldn't leave."

"You could be in High Rock, on your way to the sands-"

"But I'm not. I couldn't leave. Whether it was the Gods or a Daedra, I couldn't leave knowing that… that I wouldn't… that I wouldn't be able to see you again."

I swallowed the gravity of my words as I said them. She averted her gaze, and the fire seemed to die out, if only for a second.

"Why are you here?"

"What?"

"That's not it, Dragonborn."

"What do you-"

"You've said it. Goodbye. I've been with you through battle after battle, through caves and dungeons. That's not it. I know you. Can you say the same?"

I sat there hearing those words repeat in my head. _Can you say the same?_ She was right. She was always right. I had treated her as nothing more than just a companion, a steward, a _housecarl_ , never even considering that she has a name with a history behind it. I didn't know her anymore than I know the sands I left when I was barely old enough to grip a scimitar. There was nothing left for me to do, nothing left to say except for those three words that I dread the answer to: "Come with me."

"What?"

"Hear me out. I don't know the sands anymore than you do-"

"Nonsense-"

"I left Hammerfell when I was young. I've been counting the days since I left and they're almost too many for me to even know. I've spent more moons _away_ from Hammerfell. Going back to the desert would be like an adventure – for both of us. I'd like you to come with me."

She stood up from her seat and went over to sit at the bench by the kitchen. She sat there, looking at me. "That's why?" she said.

I nodded. The fire was dying out. "What say you?" I asked.

"You already know."

What seemed like an eternity passed between us. The fire still crackled, yet its light was diminished. Outside, the wind howled louder than ever, never ceasing. The windows were still fighting, smashing against the cold.

"You must have known."

"I did. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if…"

I couldn't take it anymore. Even remembering this feels like a burden too heavy to bear. I knew her answer. I knew it in my bones, but I still asked. The stakes were too high not to. I fixed my hood – for all my years away from the sands, I could still smell the desert in my hood and yet, on that night, it disappeared - picked up my scimitar and headed toward the door. I tried to slow my walk as much as I could, stopping by the mirror near the door to adjust my hood a second time, but no word came from her mouth. I looked back to see her staring at the dying fire. As I gripped the doorknob and started opening the door, she spoke: "You could stay." I closed the door and the fire, egged on by the wind, burned brighter. The blaze illuminated her face even from this distance. A hint of a smile was caressing her cheeks.

"You said it yourself, Dragonborn. You don't know the sands anymore than I do. But you know this land and this land knows you. This land celebrates you. It _loves_ you. For generations after you pass, boys will still bear the name of an Alik'r." I moved closer to the fire. She got up and stood opposite me, with the fire and the cold wind between us. "What say you?"

Every day since, I regret having said no. But my heart called out. It yearned to feel Hammmerfell's wind, to feel the sand grip my bare feet. I couldn't say yes.

"You must know my answer," I said.

"I do. But I couldn't live with myself if…"

Stop. No more, Gods be merciful, no more. All of this, the fatigue, the hunger, the aching, was too much. I turned around and walked to the door, this time I didn't slow down. I was about to grip the doorknob when-

"Alik'r!" I turned around to see her rushing toward me. Nordic rage what it was, I half-expected her to punch me, but nothing of the sort happened. She flung her arms around me and I gripped her tight in return. I could feel myself welling up, but nothing came out. In cold nights, it is this embrace that I remember to keep me company when nothing else in Tamriel makes sense. She let go, and I saw only the shadow of her face against the fire. No tears tonight, not for a Nord with a reputation to uphold. Even in the sanctuary that her own home provides, no weakness must be shown.

"You really won't come with me?" I asked.

"I hate sand." I chuckled. "You really won't stay with me?"

"It's too cold." She smiled. I can still remember that smile. To this day, I still see it everywhere in the sands. "Farewell then, Lydia."

"Farewell, Alik'r."

I stepped out of Breezehome for the final time that night. The cold gripped me tight and the wind was unwelcome company. I could feel my hunger, I could feel the ache in my feet, I could feel my hood loosening. No fire kept me company on that night or any night since. The cold is all I have left of Skyrim, of Breezehome, of Lydia. Some nights, I feel myself yearning to return to Skyrim. But I know now that that won't happen. My place is home in the sands, and as much as I can remember her smile and feel her fiery embrace on cold nights, I know in my heart the truth: I will never see Lydia again.


End file.
